Hero
by moonlightonmalfoymanor
Summary: You still don't know why he did it, why he told the press about you, about how you had fed information to the Light, at high risk to your own safety. H/D


Disclaimer: Anything you recognize isn't mine.

_.~o0O0o~._

When the smell of the roses in the decorations has been obliterated by the scents of alcohol and of the finger foods on the ever-refilling silver platters floating around the room, and most of all, by the scents of the throng of people milling about, talking, dancing, celebrating, you escape outside.

Once through the double doors, the air is cleaner, less clogged. It still smells like roses, but this time, the scent comes from the rose bushes in the garden, not from the decorative pieces inside. The music filters through, but it is muted, slivers of high notes on the rhythm you can feel as well as hear. Your mind fills in the parts of the music you can't actually hear. It gets under your skin, not just the music, but the setting. You know the music, even if you can't hear everything. Is that what it'll be like from now on? This was your world once. A not so very long time ago, you would have revelled in it, stayed in it, loved every minute of it. Going outside, looking on from the sidelines, was something that would never have crossed your mind.

You wanted it, so badly, back then. But now, now that you have it, now that people no longer look down upon you, but have put you on the pedestal you were raised to believe you belonged on, it suffocates you. You wanted this, you remind yourself. Once, because you thought it was your birthright. You lost that notion long ago, but remember, it is not the only reason you wanted it. Lately, you wanted it for a much simpler reason: because the alternative was so much less palatable. There was no middle ground, it was either this or Azkaban. You were either a Death Eater, a killer, the perfect little sycophant son of a fucked-up father, raised to be dark, or you were a hero, a young boy who had had the courage to go against his father, his childhood, everything he had ever known, for the sake of the Light, the Right, without any regard for his own life and safety.

The truth didn't matter. Your fear didn't matter. Only your image mattered. If you wanted to stay out of Azkaban, you were no longer the boy who had only turned to the Light side at the last possible moment, because you knew you didn't want to back the losing side. You were no longer a cowering Death Eater simply because your father forced you, but because you were a spy for the Light side. You didn't harm anyone during your stint as a Death Eater because you were a spy with firm loyalties to the Light, not because you simply didn't have the guts to torture anyone.

Image. That was the only thing that mattered. You knew your world had properly and irreversibly turned upside down, not when the war ended and Voldemort was dead, but when Potter of all people was the one who told you that: "image, Malfoy, that's all there's to it."

The days that followed that remark were insane. You were captured, just like your father, and taken away to the Ministry holding cells. Priori Incantatem proved that you had not committed any serious crimes, so you were brought back to the Manor and placed under house arrest, because the holding cells were bursting with captives. They told you afterwards that you hadn't even been in the ministry for twenty four hours before you were back home again, but between the interrogations and the lack of sleep and daylight, it felt so much longer.

You still don't know why he did it, why he told the press about you, about how you had fed information to the Light, at high risk to your own safety. About you being a spy, being brave, self-sacrificing, about you being good. Every press conference he held, he mentioned you. By the time he showed up at the Manor, eight days after the first positive mention of you in the papers and just a week after you were released into house arrest, it was a done deal. He came to the front door, handed you back your wand and thanked you profusely, all in full view of the reporters standing outside the gate. Then, to add to the insanity of it all, he wrapped his arm around your shoulder, turned to face the many photographers present and smiled that smile, the one that can make your knees stop listening to your brain.

By the time the cameras stopped flashing, you were a hero.

So now, completely cleared of all charges, you stand here. At a ball celebrating the victory over Voldemort. At a ball where you, a hero, are one of the honorary guests. They all want to talk to you, dance with you, buy you a drink. You once envied Potter for this, the attention, the hero-worship. Now though, you know better, because it's just that: hero-worship. They don't care about you, the real you, they only want you to be that image, that hero. Now that you realize that the ones who party the hardest and longest are the same ones that cowered the most during the war, hiding and waiting for someone else to deal with the mess, this party, the worship and adoration, this world, has lost all the attraction it once held for you.

You know though, that this too will die down. This frenzied revelling will wear itself out, will calm down. When that happens, you can begin to build a life again, a quiet life, outside of the spotlight. Something like this, right now: standing outside, hearing the music, an accepted participant of the party, but not _really_ belonging to it.

You hum along with the music, filling in the parts that don't quite reach you all the way out here, when the doors open again. The music flows through them, the rhythm and pitch the same as your humming, but the melody differing just a little bit. It fits your mood, and makes you smile when the doors fall closed again, taking the tune back inside with them.

He's there, standing with one hand still holding the door. He looks insecure. The Boy-Who-Lived, the man of the hour, doesn't know if he's welcome to join you. To be honest, you don't quite know either. You don't know him, you realize. You are thankful he saved you from Azkaban, gave you a chance at a life of your own, but you have no idea why he did it, why he decided you didn't deserve prison. You don't know what this life he gave you is going to be like either, because you have no idea what you want, now that you're finally free to decide for yourself.

But, when you see him standing there, you understand you're probably not the only one who doesn't know. The thought that Harry Potter, Saviour of the wizarding world, doesn't quite know either makes you smile. He smiles in return, just a small smile, but your knees still notice. When he lets go of the door and moves towards you, you realize that, even though there's a lot you don't know, you both may get some answers tonight.

_.~o0O0o~._

AN: Well, that didn't go the way I originally planned it, but I think I like it anyway. Please let me know what you think…


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